


Lost and Found

by Beth Harker (chiana606)



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6232744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiana606/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Itey's family crossed the ocean to find him at the Duane Street lodging house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

From time to time people came into the lodging house looking for one of the boys. Sometimes they were members of Children's Aid, naive and solicitous, in their suits or their tidy dresses and plumed hats. Other times the visitors were the police, or parents seeking after a lost child. No matter who it was, Kloppman had only a few minutes to judge whether or not he should hand his lodgers over to them. Some kids didn't want to be found. More importantly some kids _needed_ not to be found. Kloppman was not one to cater to a kid in search of an adventure slumming it on the busy streets of Manhattan, or revenge on his mama for not giving him enough pocket money, nor would he allow a very bad sort of criminal to live among his newsies for long, but he wasn't going to send a child back into a vipers' nest either, not if he could help it.

That's why, when a man and a boy walked through the lodging house door at nine o'clock one autumn morning, Kloppman did not look up from his log book right away. The newsies had long since run out to hustle their papers and Kloppman was alone. Best to let the intruders think that his age had made him dottering and half deaf, not unwilling to help them, but simply unable. Kloppman hummed a quiet tune to himself, and scratched a few unnecessary notes into the book before him. Next to the doorway the man and the boy spoke rapidly in a foreign tongue. The man pushed the boy forward to the counter. Did he mean to make a newsie of him?

The child wasn't a bad prospect. His clothes might have been decent once, but they looked like they hadn't been changed in a while, and his shoes were so worn that he might as well have gone barefoot. Kloppman finished his nonsense writing, then let himself look up to study the youth in earnest. His gangly height told Kloppman that he was probably in his teens, but his face said that he could pass for younger. He had huge brown eyes, curly hair, and skin that would have been tan if not for a certain sickly pallor. He was grasping an envelope, which he slapped down on the table, as if he thought it was a ticket for his safe passage. 

"H-hello," he said haltingly, his accent thick even on this simple word. He pointed at the envelope. "Fortunato," he said. His grimy fingers moved over the name on the envelope, just above the return address that gave away the location of the lodging house. "Itey," the boy added. 

"Hmm. Fortunato. Itey," Kloppman muttered several times, pretending to mull over it, even though he knew very well who Fortunato was, would have known even if the boy had not used his nickname as well. The boy's eyes widened, and he waved the envelope in front of Kloppman's face. 

" _Si_ ," said the boy, his agitation evident, " _Dov'è Fortunato?_ Itey!" 

At this the man came forward, and placed both hands on the boy's shoulder. They were big hands, but thin. He was bearded, gaunt, and weathered, but he spoke gently to the boy, even as worry washed over his features. The boy took a deep breath. He looked again at the envelope. He pointed to the address. Kloppman considered a moment, then nodded. 

"Brother," the boy said, putting his hand to his chest. He gestured then to the man. "Father." 

It was believable. Kloppman made his decision. They could stay. He'd keep an eye on them. Itey had been sending money to his family in Italy since he'd arrived at the lodging house two years ago. He missed them. If this miraculous thing really had happened... well, in this case Kloppman could watch, and wait, and find a way to fix things if it was all a mistake. 

Kloppman found some chairs for the newcomers. "Sit," he told them. "Sit. Go on. Sit down." 

The boy looked behind him like he didn't quite trust it, or had never seen a chair before. Kloppman knew that that could not be the case, but also found himself wondering what difficulties this man and boy had faced to be here now. 

"Itey," the boy repeated. 

"Soon enough," Kloppman promised. On inspiration pointed to the number seven on the hall clock. That was around the time that the boys usually got home. "Itey," he said. "Fortunato. He's coming sure enough, along with them other hooligans he calls friends." 

The man and the boy conferred quickly with each other, and then sat down to wait. 

Kloppman waited as well. The pair did not speak much, but sat close together. The boy asked questions from time to time, and the father answered. His voice was dry and hoarse. At noon, Kloppman gave them a small meal of bread, cheese, and tea. The boy's eyes were as big as saucers, and he almost choked on his food. Kloppman did not have to speak their language to know, as the father patted the boy's back, that he was warning him to go slowly. Kloppman had heard of the ships to America, and what they could do to their poorest passengers. It was not the condition of this father and son pair that surprised Kloppman, so much as how patiently they sat and waited, when surely they were weighed down with the weariness of their journey. 

The boys did not start to filter in precisely at seven. Some came as early as six fifteen, happy to have sold out quickly. Pie Eater showed up at half past, with Snoddy trailing behind him, shouting cheerfully at the good headline. At a quarter past seven, Kloppman served dinner to the lodgers that wanted to pay for it. He gave the man and the boy a each a free helping of split pea soup, but that was not what they wanted or what they were looking for. 

By seven the man was pacing. Kloppman tried to reassure him, with words that he could not understand, that his son was coming. The boy was out playing and making trouble somewhere, as boys did, but he would come. The man raked a hand through his hair, which was dark like Itey's, the curls greasy. 

By eight o'clock Kloppman guessed that most of the newsies had opted for the hamburger special at Tibby's rather than his cooking. 

He wasn't wrong. The stampede came in a few minutes after eight, consisting of Mush, Blink, Racetrack, Tumbler, Skittery, Snitch, and Boots, with Itey right at the center of them, happy and comfortable to push and shove like the others, to share their jokes as if he'd been part of them his whole life. This all ceased when Itey's brother gave a great shout. It stopped Itey in his tracks. He looked at the other newsies, then the boy and the man, eyes widening. A word escaped his mouth, more like a sob, and the man came forward. 

The newsies exchanged glances with each other, freezing much like Itey had, not from overwhelming emotion, but uncertainty as to whether or not the man was a foe, whether or not they needed to protect their friend. Snitch, who could not have had any idea what was happening, put his hand on Itey's shoulder. It took Racetrack shouting out, "That's his _dad_ ya numbskulls," to get some of the boys to clear away. Even so, Blink and Snitch stayed close until the man wrapped Itey in his arms, and Itey returned the embrace, his brother coming in behind to join in the hug. 

From there, the other newsies backed off, keeping to the perimeters of the room, confused glances passing between them as they watched the scene unfold, a group of wolf cubs so unfamiliar with the idea of family that they saw this little reunion as a possible threat. 

As for Itey, he was overcome. He gasped and cried into his father's shirt, like one incapable of much else. There were tears in the man's eyes as well, but he spoke kindly and with some self possession. Kloppman could not tell if his words were to comfort, to explain, or both. 

Snitch cleared his throat. He took a hesitant step forward, cleared his throat again, and waited. Racetrack gestured for him to shut his trap. It went unheeded.

"You alright, Itey," Snitch asked loudly, when it became clear that any more subtle methods would fail to get his friend's attention. This time Skittery pulled him back by the collar of his shirt, but already Itey had turned around. He sniffled, and wiped at his nose and eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, but he was smiling even so. 

"I'm... This is my father. My father! I'm crying. I don't care. You can all watch me cry. I'm very alright." 

With that Itey wiped at his face again, the tears falling quickly. Kloppman rummaged for a handkerchief for him, as it wouldn't do for him to continue to wipe at snot and tears interchangeably, and give himself conjunctivitis for his troubles. By the time that he handed it to Itey, his brother had his arm slung over his shoulder, and his father was at his side, wiping away the tracks of his tears with his fingers. Boots was rounding the boys up to head upstairs, promising them that Itey was okay, and just needed some time alone with his folks to calm down. Snitch lingered the longest, and was the last to go. 

Eventually Kloppman got the family sat down together in the lobby. The father and brother had already eaten, but Kloppman was half afraid that Itey would faint if he wasn't attended to, and so he found a glass of water and the remnants of dinner, and gave it over to him. At first Itey did not eat, but tried to push the food over to his brother, who pushed it back to him. It took the father several tries before he was able to prevail upon Itey to eat his food and stop trying to feed them. It did him good, as Kloppman had known it would. He stopped crying and started to talk, not haltingly like he did with the newsies, but fast and with ease. 

"I don't know how this has happened," Itey explained to Kloppman as the night wore on. "They say there was a letter. Many months ago there was a letter. They send it, but I have no letter. I needed to find a house for them, but I have no house. My brother, Marco, he can sell the papes. I can help him. My father..."

"Can stay for a few days."

Itey shut his eyes for a moment, released a breath that he must have been holding.

"I am away too long," he said. He gave a short laugh. "I'm too tall. Look at me! When we make the money my mama will come here with the boat. I... I'm just too tall, and father say I look like an American now. So much is... is different, is change." 

Kloppman grinned. He shook his head and pushed Itey towards his family. "Looks like you made it, kid. Don't waste time talking to old men like me."

Unspoken was the fact that Kloppman didn't have any more time tonight to deal with heartwarming reunions. It was getting late, and he had work to do. There were doors to lock, floors to mop, and the dubious task of going upstairs to collect lodging fees from the newsies, who had not been in the mindset to sign their name in Kloppman's book and hand over their pennies as they would have on a normal evening. A scattering of coins had been left on Kloppman's desk, but there was no indication of who had left them there and who hadn't. Kloppman spared Itey and his family one last glance before making his way up the stairs to deal with the others. 

"I'd pummel 'em with holy water, is what I'd do. Wouldn't have any choice." Boots' voice rang out loud and clear from behind the door of the boys' dormitory. 

"Thought you _liked_ your folks," somebody argued.

"Sure I did, but I don't put no stock in ghosts. Dead people are dead, and if they show up in the lodging house, something's gone wrong." 

Kloppman let the door creak open. A couple of boys jumped. Maybe it was all the talk of ghosts that had them spooked, or maybe it was the knowledge that they only had mere seconds to hide their cigars and other contraband. Mush hopped down from one of the top bunks, where he'd been playing cards with Blink, and handed Kloppman a hat full of coins. 

"Think that's all of us covered Mr. K. Itey doin' alright down there?" 

Kloppman waved off Mush's question. "You trying to set the place on fire?" He bellowed at Skittery, who slammed his book shut on the cigarette he had just been smoking. 

"If this place burns down, it wasn't me," he insisted. 

"Do kids' folks come back for 'em a lot?" Tumbler asked in a small voice. He was sitting at the edge of Skittery's bunk, his eyes dark and owl-like as he looked down. Kloppman just shook his head. No sense in getting the kids' hopes up. 

"Everything happens," Skittery explained. "Just not to everybody." 

"Never to me." Tumbler crossed his arms and pouted. 

"Or me," echoed Snipeshooter. 

"Stuff happens," said Mush. "Just different stuff happens to different people. Ain't that right Mr. K? Just the other week something happened to me— one of the girls who works at Medda's gave me her umbrella, and I'd say I was real happy about that." 

"Sometimes we's all better off if things don't happen," Blink muttered. 

In the bed where Itey usually slept, Snitch was lying down with his thumb in his mouth and his dirty feet poking out from the edge of the blanket. Kloppman considered asking him how he was holding up, but then thought better of it. 

"I think you kids got the right idea," was all that Kloppman said. He counted the money again. It was enough for seven lodgers, but he was still in for a chore keeping his books balanced tonight. He couldn't exactly begrudge the newsies that, when it came right down to it. One of them had finally _made it_ in life, an event so rare that it was bound to put the others into a state of chaos for a little while. Parents and families would be forgotten soon enough, and life on Duane Street would go back to normal.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the revised version of a story that I originally posted on tumblr. For the rest of my newsies fics, go here:
> 
> For a complete list of my newsies fics, go here: http://david-jacobs-would.tumblr.com/post/125939888514/masterlist-of-newsies-fan-fiction-by


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